


Cautionary Tales

by tiptoe39



Series: Episodic Tangents [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Gen, Humor, M/M, Marriage, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's how <i>not</i> to fall in love and live happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cautionary Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Episodic Tangents, a series in which I take episode titles and turn them into completely different fics and worlds.

Folks, I speak to you as a happily domesticated animal. A guy who's found his everything. Family, love, home, happiness, the whole megillah. So for what it's worth, I thought I would share with you the secret to my success. How you, yes, you, can get everything you ever wanted.

Here's a hint: Don't you dare do what I've done.

Seriously. My biography is a little like Emily Post's worst nightmare. So in case you are thinking I'm full of it (and you're right, I am, but not in this case), I present to you these cautionary tales. Here's how NOT to fall in love and live happily ever after.

**1\. How Not to Make a First Impression**

One word. Gun.

What, you want more than that? Gun trained on eight-year-old child you previously helped save the life of. Then, get in a girly fight with the weird-ass guy in the glasses and promptly take a fire extinguisher to the back of the head.

Really. Not. Smart. Like Jodie friggin' Foster in the beginning of Silence of the Lambs. "You're DEAD, Parkman." Or at least lying on the floor with a lump the size of a grapefruit welling up in the back of your head. Then you recognize the kid who probably thought you were a hero until you got taken down with a canister of what's basically compressed air. I got knocked out with AIR. Literally. Well, _shit._ Don't worry, Molly, I'll save you. Just watch where you exhale, OK?

Then get up and find yourself faced with a coupla guns. One held by the Bennet freak, who's less than stable. No Ted, but not stable either. And another held by a guy with a serious afro going and three-inch-deep bags under his eyes. Once everyone's talked down and they've stopped playing John Wayne and started doing something civilized, like disposing of dead bodies in a laundry chute, you have half a chance to recover. Hi there, Molly. How ya been? Sorry I burst in here with the full intention of killing you. But you know, I'm the kind of guy who leaves his pregnant wife at home to go cross-country and kill eight-year-olds. You know, the dependable sort. You can trust me.

Bennet's dialing Alaska on that cell phone of his outside and Afro Man comes back in, and you feel horrible calling him that because he's clearly not African American, what, you think everyone without pasty white skin looks the same? So what is he then? Sorta squinting at him, you get stuck on how long his fingers are as he sets Molly up with an IV. Doesn't he get tangled in them? How does he keep from them turning into knots?

He's Indian, you think. Or Arab. One of the two. God, you helpless ethnocentric idiot. Your mother would tan your hide. Finally think to ask his name. Mohinder Suresh. It sounds like something you'd chant. Or order in a restaurant. Indian it is, you're pretty damn sure at this point. But he doesn't talk like the guy in the Simpsons at all. Oh. Matt. You are an absolute jerkwad.

He talks gently to Molly, and you like that. You really do. Something between the accent and the tone is sort of hypnotizing. You could fall asleep to it. Or maybe you just have a concussion from the damned fire extinguisher to the head.

You look at him one more time, and it hits you full-on... he's beautiful.

World-changingly, spine-tinglingly, breath-stoppingly beautiful.

And you're married with a pregnant wife.

The morals of this particular cautionary tale:   
1: Don't have lousy timing.  
2: Don't pull guns on minors.  
3\. Watch out for that fire extinguisher.

**2\. How Not to Look Like a Tough Guy**

So that grapefruit-sized lump on the back of your head is obviously affecting your brain function at this point, because you've somehow decided that you're going to go after the Superpowered Killer with nothing but your gun and your Superman Underoos. (Metaphorical Underoos, people. Metaphorical. I'm not that far gone.) At this point you've met a man who can blow himself up like a bomb, a girl who can regenerate, and a guy who can do just about anything. What can you do? Hear people thinking about what they had for lunch that day. Congratulations, you are officially the Aquaman of this particular Justice League.

Luckily enough, fate doesn't quite have it in for you yet. He's gone. That means you have to do a 180, and quick. You see the bastard, think you're so damn hot, and fire four rounds right into... your own chest.

Being shot hurts, folks. Oh, holy cheese and crackers, does it ever hurt.

But check you out. You're so tough that when Beautiful Non-African Afro Man comes out those doors, he has to run over and stick his hands in your bullet wounds to keep you from bleeding out onto Avenue of the Americas. Brilliant. At least he's touching you. Oh please GOD let me not have said that out loud.

Still, he's so close and you're trying to cling to consciousness and it can't be a bad thing, right, if the fact that his eyelashes are fluttering and his lips are pursed in concentration is keeping you awake, then just concentrate on that. Ignore the rest. Ignore the man who's turning red. You survived one nuclear explosion, what's another? At least you have good scenery for this one. The last one you had that damn dog yapping at you for a good part of it and then you woke up the next morning strapped to a chair.

Now would be a good time to say something tough. Tough and manly and impressive, right?

"My wife... got a baby..."

Of course. Let him know you're completely pussy-whipped and unavailable and by the way, maybe you should let him know you left her on the other side of the country so you could go chasing after eight-year-olds while you're at it?

He turns, startled. You think those brown eyes are dark clouds raining down onto you. Rain of shit, more like. And what the hell are you worrying about? Or have you forgotten that yeah, you do in fact have a wife and a baby on the way?

Blame it on the concussion. You can't be responsible for your thoughts right now. Concussion and gunshots. You'll straighten all this out when you finally wake up, because now the world is getting damned dark and you are pretty sure those eyes are in fact clouds and are in fact swallowing you, because you still feel them on you even as the rest of the world slips away.

Oh, and the piece de resistance? Take four whole days to wake up even after you're whole and sewn up again because you haven't slept since you left California and you're exhausted.

The morals of this particular cautionary tale:  
1\. If you're going to shoot a guy with super-hearing, use a silencer.  
2\. And know about the super-hearing beforehand.  
3\. Aquaman is the guy whose superpower is talking to FISHES. You know how much good that does? Yeah, precisely. So don't get cocky.

**3\. How Not to Get Invited Home**

So your wife, after having cheated on you, decides that your cardinal sin is not running off or giving her stolen diamonds or getting suspended for telling your supervisors all about the freaky superpowered woman who threw you out a window, but... get this... your biggest mistake was _getting shot._ That's right. Everything else she listens to on the phone, holding back her sniffles, but when you say you got shot, _that's_ the point of no return. Like you should have dodged the bullets. Sorry, wrong superpower, honey. I'll trade it in next time. See if they have a newer model.

"I thought it was some sort of finding-yourself road trip!" she wails at you. "I had no idea you were off doing things that were going to get you shot!"

It's too much, she tells you, too much. She can't live like this. She needs you out of her life. When you try to remind her that you're having a baby together, that you'll never be out of her life and you have no intention of doing to that kid what your dad did to you, she gets very quiet on the phone and then whispers, "Not your baby anyway."

And that's where everything dies. It doesn't matter if she's telling the truth or lying. She wants you out of her life that badly? Badly enough to tell you something like that? Well, there's not much left to say, then, is there?

I'm sorry. I'm getting off track. Let me bring the story back to the Goofy Misadventures of Matt Parkman In Love. It's just... well... some things hurt just remembering them.

Anyway. Moving on.

So your marriage is just about over. Which means you could potentially soon be free to pursue Doctor Gorgeous, which is your new internal nickname for The Man Formerly Known as Afro. Not that your heart isn't broken into a thousand pieces, but you have had your life turned so far upside down at this point that to feel something as simple as sexual attraction is actually kind of comforting. Too bad it couldn't be with a girl. But that's what you get for being liberated, my friend. You get to have the whole friends-or-more uneasiness with everyone you ever talk to. Lifestyle choice my left foot. Who wants to have to deal with that all the freaking time?

But the weirdest thing is happening. Doc Gorgeous-- DG, for short-- has been coming to the hospital with Molly... and Bennet. He's always lurking in the background, not saying much, like the freaky uncle you don't want coming to visit you. And they're talking an awful lot. Outside in the hall, where they don't realize you can see them. In the room. Occasionally, when one of them comes alone, on the phone. They are up to something seriously weird.

And one day when DG is on the phone, Molly comes up to your bed and whispers, "I'm having nightmares."

"Baby, I'm sorry," you say. "They're just dreams, you know."

"No, they're not," she says, shaking her head solemnly. "They're not just dreams. They're about... him. No. They are him. He's using me. To find people. He asks me to find people in my dreams and if I don't do it, he gives me awful nightmares."

She's hugging herself, and her lips are blue, as though she's freezing. "Will you come stay over one night, when you feel better?" she asks. "Maybe you can hear... hear who he is and make him go away."

It takes you a while to realize what she's asking you to do. And you feel this incredible swell of... pity, you suppose, and affection. She's a smart girl. "I'd stay over every night if I could," you swear. "What does Doctor Suresh think?"

"I haven't... told him anything," she says, looking a little guilty. "I don't think he'd understand."

And for the first time, you feel some serious anger. Hey. Doc. Over here, little girl needs help, get off the cotton-pickin' phone and help her already! You glare at him.

Of COURSE he picks exactly that moment to look up from his phone call. He sings a quick round of Bye Bye Bennet and marches on your bed like he's got a regiment of soldiers behind him. "What is that look for?" he demands.

You try to hide it. "Nothing."

"Matt thinks you're not taking care of me," Molly volunteers. When did _she_ become the mind-reader in the room?

"Oh, really." His lips purse and turn up and you're reminded just why you gave him that nickname in the first place. You struggle to sit up so he can't see your reaction to his smile.

"Really," Molly says. "I think we should have a game. Winner gets to keep me."

Both of your eyebrows fly right through the ceiling.

"I don't think that's necessary," DG says. "I'm going out of town in a few weeks anyway. You're welcome to take a crack at parenting Molly then."

You can't process this. "Do you let her watch reality shows?" you ask, kind of accusingly.

"I'll thank you not to tell me what to do in my own home," DG says. He's pouting a little. How badly would you like those pouting lips to be just a little bit closer.

"Oooh!" Molly squeals, as though she expects the bouncers to hold the two of you back and the studio audience to start chanting "Jer-ry!" any second.

"I wasn't telling you what to do, I was asking a question. But maybe I should tell you what to do," you bark. "If she's having problems and you're too busy planning round-the-world cruises to notice!"

"I am making those plans for her sake," he informs you. "Your friend Bennet and I have been discussing how best to ensure the organization that abducted her is unable to do so again. This is part of the plan."

"How about sticking around to protect her instead of flying off to God knows where!"

"OK, time!" Molly throws her arms wide open. "OK, you?" She points to Mohinder. "Stop making him angry. And you?" Her little finger swings in your direction. "You come stay with me. Everybody happy? Yes? Good." She folds her arms over her chest again and sits down, turning up her nose.

Doctor Gorgeous stares at you, and you stare back.

"Uh, does that work?" you ask.

To your great surprise, he smiles. "I suppose we'll see," he says.

The morals of this particular cautionary tale:  
1\. Do not let eight-year-olds watch Survivor without a healthy discussion of fantasy versus reality.  
2\. If you can read minds, don't break up with your wife over the phone when you can't hear if she's lying.  
3\. When you go to live with a man you've been crushing on for weeks, try to do it when he's actually there. Or at least in your hemisphere. Otherwise, it sort of misses the point.

**4\. How Not to Be a Sensitive Father **

I swear, things get funny again in a little bit. Really. Someday I'll talk about the piggyback ride I took over Missouri on the back of a certain cargo jet I know. Someday. Once the therapy has gotten me to that point.

But that's the thing about having screwed up royally in almost every aspect of my life: Despite things actually having turned out OK, I still feel horrible about a lot of the mistakes I've made. So if I'm not as entertaining as I was before, please don't blame me. I do enough of that to myself.

Anyhow. Back to the matter at hand. Imagine, once again, that you're me. You're sleeping on a couch in a guy's apartment while he cruises the world trying to get his James Bond on. Your kid's having trouble in school and you've just now got your badge back after being suspended and you're desperately trying to get the folks in the NYPD not to believe the gossip from L.A. that you're an absolute crackhead which means you need to make one hell of an impression.

And you are assigned to the perfect murder case, a wealthy entrepreneur tossed off a building an ocean and a half away from his home with no evidence and a suspect practically screaming at you that there's more going on here than meets the eye. But it gets worse because you can't tell your boss "I know she's innocent because she thought as much," and her son can _fly_ and there is something very, very sinister about this whole thing.

All in all, a high stress level. You're sleeping pretty lightly. When it's not your kid waking up screaming, it's you hearing an intruder and ending up pulling a gun on the man of your dreams, who is back from Cairo unexpectedly.

Remember what I said about first impressions being really, really bad when guns are involved? Doesn't get any better the second or third time around. It's enough to make a guy want to be a pacifist.

But all in all, gun or not, you're glad he woke you up because you have never seen anything so fucking beautiful as this guy late at night all exhausted and sweaty from being on a plane for ten hours and still with the sharpest, most brilliant eyes you've ever seen, challenging you. He's always on, this man, always bright and alert, and you want to burn in the heat of those eyes for the rest of your life. Because when he's challenging you he's looking at _you,_ he's not looking past you at some other goal or putting up with your presence for the sake of something else, he's evaluating you and your fitness to say those words to him, to look at him, and you want so badly to be found worthy. It makes you a better person just to be seen by those eyes.

Holy crap, I'm getting cheesy. I'm sorry.

Anyhow. So you've got pressure from Mr. Perfect (when you're annoyed at him and he's being self-righteous, he goes from being Doctor Gorgeous to being Mr. Perfect. Feh.) and pressure from this case and pressure from your daughter's school and then bam, here comes the finishing move, a photo of your dad hanging out in some decidedly questionable company. (He himself is decidedly questionable company, but that's beside the point.) Well, you're against the ropes now, slugger, but you've got the K.O. in your corner. If your dad's throwing businessmen off balconies, and you can find him and stop him, that sort of takes care of it all, right? Instant adoration from all quarters. Ticker tape parades down Broadway followed by nights of hot lovin'. Or something like that. Right-o, time to get out the trusty GPS.

Um, trusty GPS? Why are you backing up against the bookcase looking like you've just eaten a bad pickle or five?

Well. Your life is just one big old metaphorical rerun of getting shot with your own bullets, isn't it? Now your brilliant idea is getting you screamed at by Mr. Perfect, who's accusing you of having daddy issues and doing that thing with his eyes again except for now you're too weirded out to enjoy it. And then. Oh. Your beautiful, perfect, precious daughter is now volunteering to help you.

Look again at Mohinder. He's looking at you expectantly. Expectant? What's he expecting? You know this one. He's expecting you to do the manly thing. The right thing. Say you'd never in a million years ask her to do this. Perfect. You know what to do. Right? Hey? Body? Why are you moving? Why are you hugging Molly and saying Thank You like you're actually going to take her up on her offer? Are you a complete and utter masochist?

This time, folks, the metaphorical bullets turn right around and hit her instead of you. She's trapped in her nightmares and it's all your fault. Mohinder's not shy about reminding you of this. And what's worse, you can't even make the old joke that keeps running around in your head. Because all things considered, you'd rather _not_ be in Philadelphia.

Morals of this cautionary tale:

1\. When everybody expects you to screw up, try not to live up to their expectations.  
2\. Lay off the boxing metaphors if you're a gun kind of guy.  
3\. They say every kid's got to face their fears. But that cliche does not extend to "If your daughter's afraid of a mind-bending illusionist serial killer, she should face that mind-bending illusionist serial killer." Really. No matter what the pop psychologists say.

**5\. How Not to Overcome Your Jealousy**

Remember freaky superpowered woman who threw you out a window? Mentioned in No. 3, go back and read it. Come on. I'll wait for you.

Back? Good. So. And this is good. You come back from Philadelphia, doing your Aquaman life-saving thing, and there's your dream man walking toward you in the corridor along with said freaky woman. He looks stunned to see you. He says your name. You want to kiss it right off his lips. He barely ever says your name. It sounds _great._. No, focus. Killer. Right. Killer.

It's thanks to Molly that you are able to get your priorities in order at all. It's thanks to her you're ever able to do anything right. You have a big burst of heroics and fatherliness and kick your deadbeat dad's ass and all is well and now you can go home and obsess about the fact that Mohinder seems to be partnering with a freaky woman.

So you're pacing in the hallway at three a.m., and you imagine Mohinder coming out of his bedroom, and you imagine him always talking on the phone to someone from his freaky company and his freaky women, and you imagine snatching the phone out of his hands and dashing it to the ground. No, you wouldn't do that. You imagine looking at him impatiently until he knows it's time to hang up. No. You imagine waiting patiently for him to hang up and then say something to you.

And you say "Mohinder, what is going on with you? What is going on between you and that woman? Don't you know what she's capable of?"

No. No, you say, "Mohinder, please tell me your relationship with that woman is purely professional."

No, you say, "Mohinder, are you seeing anyone? You know. When you're not going on secret spy missions to California."

No, you say, "Mohinder--"

"What are you doing?"

Your eyes shoot down. Sleepy Molly with a teddy bear in her hand, rubbing her eyes and looking kind of pissed at you.

"Mohinder's not here," she informs you. "Why are you talking to him when he's not here?"

"I..." Oh. Is it hot in this hallway or is it just the ridiculous magenta blush that's creeping to your face? "I wasn't _talking_ to him. I was _practicing_ talking to him."

"Why do you have to practice?" She's practically asleep on her feet.

You reach down and pick her up, and she puts her little head on your shoulder and dozes almost immediately. Oh, she is your teddy bear with her own teddy bear, and you are never gonna let anyone hurt her ever again. You put her down to bed, hover over her a moment, and then head back to your own room.

Really, it is only thanks to her that you're able to do anything without making a fool of yourself. Because if she hadn't interrupted you right at that moment, you were going to say aloud to the hallway, "Mohinder, would you mind terribly if I stole you away from that blonde bitch and fucked your brains out right here and right now?"

And that? Would not have gone over well with the younger set.

However, your redemption is short-lived, because the minute you come back from Texas and find Mohinder talking to a weird girl and you hear the name Sylar in his and Molly's thoughts over and over, you shout "WHAT THE FUCK!?" at the top of your lungs, and your little girl looks at you like you've just shattered her illusions of you as the perfect father forever and ever.

The morals of this cautionary tale:  
1\. Just because you are able to pluck thoughts out of other people's heads doesn't mean you shouldn't keep your own to yourself.  
2\. Freaky women? Come in threes. (There was another, too, and I didn't even tell you about her. Would you throw rotten tomatoes at me if I said she was shocking? ...Ugh. I sure would.)  
3\. Having a kid can inspire you to new heights of achievement. You, on the other hand, can only inspire her to new depths of psychotherapy.

 

**6\. How Not to Tell Him You Want Him **

Ri-i-i-ght. So. Trauma over and done with, right? Maybe not. Maybe not so much. Because now he's on edge, scared to death that Sylar's coming back, and there's more stuff going on at the Company that you don't even really want to know about, and there's it's like Old McDonald's Farm around here, here a hero there a hero everywhere a hero hero, and if you ever hear the name Petrelli again you think you're gonna be sick.

You had a huge argument with Peter before you came home. He was mad as hell that you wanted to go home, that you wanted out of this whole going-public exercise, how could you let down Nathan like that, how could you let down everyone like that? And, and this is rich, he starts going on about how family means more than anything and if we don't take care of our family that means we'll never move on or accomplish anything, and that means cleaning up their messes. As though you should sacrifice your kid so you can mop up after your dad. Whatever. You don't even bother trying to argue with him. You just go the hell home.

And scream an obscenity at the top of your lungs, but that's neither here nor there. Let's take stock of the situation. Freaky woman one is gone, but two and three have shown up and they're much pushier than one. Your crush has managed to shoot one person and resurrect two from the dead while you were gone. And your kid doesn't want to go to school. She says she sees the boogeyman in every shadow. Aren't you Father of the Year.

You end up staying up most nights, because Molly swears she can't sleep unless she knows someone's watching. She probably needs real therapy, not just the kind that makes for good punchlines. A week, two weeks go by and she's still checking at one a.m. to see if someone's awake. Finally Mohinder lays down the law. "We're all frightened," he says to her. "And Matt and I want very much to protect you, but darling, you can't go through life afraid to move. And we both need our sleep. Now go to bed. Right now." His voice turns hard and flinty at the edge, and you feel like a complete wuss for not being able to do that two weeks ago.

She pouts, but marches away to bed, and he turns to you.

You feel deflated, like a balloon someone's let go of. You've been whooshing out air all over the room, hitting furniture, bouncing off the walls and the ceiling, finally to collapse to the ground with a supremely undignified farting sound. "You win," you say.

"What?"

"The game. Of who gets to keep her. You win."

(You remember. Back in #3. Go back and read it again. Come on. I'm not telling you these stories for my health, you know.)

"Because I told her to go to bed?" He cocks his head at you and that curly mop of his sort of flops around his face in this way that makes you want to just grab fistfuls of it. Nobody with a brain like his should look this good. It's just plain unfair.

"Because you win," you say. "Because she listens to you. Because you have the both of us wrapped around your little finger. I swear to God, Mohinder, I know you've got bigger things to worry about, but do you ever sit back and realize how fucking perfect you are? Don't you ever feel bad about how inadequate you make the rest of us feel?" You're up, now, and pacing in the other direction, practically kicking the ground. You've just had a preteen-girl-sized temper tantrum. Don't you feel sooo much better? Yeah, neither did I. The cast of 90210 would be goggling in shock at your pettiness, you big girl.

You turn to apologize. And that's when you notice that Mohinder has not moved a muscle since you started to speak.

His jaw is hanging open. His hand is out, halfway pointing at you. If it wasn't for the floppy hair still jangling a bit, you'd want to double-check to see if that Hiro kid is lurking around stopping time just to mess with your head.

"What?" you say defensively, feeling all of a sudden like the three-headed lizard from beyond time and space. Seriously, what is freaking him out so badly?

He closes his jaw, shakes his head, flinching, then starts again. It's a baffling series of movements. You want to run them in slow-motion. Seriously, the time-stopper might come in handy right now. "_You..._ think _I'm...._ too _perfect_?" he says, like he's reading out of a foreign phrasebook.

You throw up your hands. "Never mind!" you shout to the heavens. "I haven't slept in two weeks, I don't know what I'm talking about. Forget it." You try to brush past him and he blocks your way.

"I want to know," he says, rather petulantly. He's barely half a head shorter than you, so he's tilting his chin back ever so slightly and you feel like there's a neon sign: Insert Hand Here; Attach Lips A to Lips B. A neon sign and a magnet, because the attraction is killing you a little bit. His voice softens. "Why did you say that?"

"What? Because it's true. I didn't mean to dump it on you. It's my complex, it's my crush, just let it be." You have the advantage of brute strength, so this time you push right past him, but he's got his hand on your wrist all of a sudden and your blood seems to have turned to one of those sugary fizzy juices that Molly likes. Any minute now you're going to have a spontaneous hemorrhage and bleed Juicy Juice all over the floor.

He's not talking. Why isn't he talking? He's the one keeping you there. Say something or let go, man. This is not healthy. Molly's therapy is going to cost enough without you needing someone because of Mohinderhand on your wrist for more time than you can adequately process.

Then it occurs to you. You brilliant moron, why don't you read his mind for God's sake? This is why you should never start thinking of yourself as a superhero. You are too dumb for words.

_Crush? Crush? Crush?_

Well. That was enlightening. You thought it worked a mile a minute in that cranium, what the hell is he sticking on one word for? You want to throttle him. Think things that make sense!

_Crush!? Crush!?_

"Yes!" you finally say. "A crush. OK? Now you know. Can you let go now?"

His lip trembles, and he squints at you. God, even his squints are gorgeous.

"On _me_?"

You have changed your mind. He is not brilliant. He is unbelievably obtuse. Never mind, he's obviously not perfect after all. Complex over, need for therapy averted, crisis narrowly avoided, and why is he _grinning_?

Oh, my God.

Oh, no freakin' _way._

It's not possible. It's not even close to being possible.

But he's grinning. Like he's happy to hear.

Your heart is playing the timpani in some god-awful Lloyd Webber orchestral number. You don't... you never thought... oh, God, he...

He's getting a lot further away... and tilting somehow. That's odd.

Ooh, floor. Floor under head. That's helpful.

Is he shouting at you? That idiot, he'll wake Molly up.

It's awfully hot in here... world is spinning...

You wake up the next morning in his bed with blankets piled on you and you can't breathe or eat, much less explore the implications of the previous night's discoveries. You stay there for about a week. Poor guy sleeps on the couch instead.

Morals of this particular cautionary tale:  
1\. Never mind what they say. _Do_ use your power for personal gain.  
2\. Grown men make lousy teenage girls.  
3\. Discovering your crush is requited is a lot more pleasant when you are not suffering from sleep deprivation and the flu.

 

**7\. How Not to Have a First Kiss**

Five days and seven boxes of tissues later, you're just about to find out whether Lucas and Sami are going to get back together (or just talk at the camera a lot), when there's a key in the lock and Mohinder is there. He's come home, he tells you, because he has to pick Molly up from school in a while and he figured he might as well grab lunch at home. He's lying. He doesn't even head for the kitchen. He sits down on the couch right next to you.

He may just be looney tunes, this guy. You're feeling way better, but you're still honking up great loads of radioactive Silly Putty every two minutes. He must have a masochistic streak. Then again, if you worked for the Company, you might be angling to get sick, too.

Sami's talking to the screen again (you'd think the people milling around in the hospital scene behind her would notice) and you're sneezing when all of a sudden there's Mohinderhand on your back. Very very warm hand. Perhaps you will pass out again. It worked so well last time.

"That sounded like it hurt," he observes, smiling at you. You grumble and blow your nose. His hand is still there. Is he waiting for you to say thank you? Right. As soon as you find your tongue. It got loosened during the sneeze and then his smile detached it altogether. Maybe it's in the tissue. You peek, but all green no pink. Oh, god, the man you're crazy about is smiling at you and you're thinking about _boogers._ You've even regressed from teenage girl. Now you're a six-year-old boy.

"Matt, can we talk?" he asks, rather shyly. You don't think you've ever seen him do shy before. Bookish, yes. Intellectual, yes. But not _shy._ You are pretty sure you have an erection that can be seen from space at this point.

Oh, and by the way, he's STILL touching you.

You manage to shrug. "Sure, go ahead," you say, clearing your throat. You think you remember when that didn't require a tissue.

"I think... you know what I want to talk about," he says lamely. What's the matter with him? Since the other night, he hasn't been saying or thinking anything that makes sense, and making sense is his...

Oh. Oh. That's what he wants to talk about.

Of course. Damn. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," you start, but then you have to cough again. That's attractive. Yeah, you're destined for domestic bliss now. Who wouldn't fall madly in love with you and your irresistible snot?

He waits for you to finish, but by the time you have, his hands are both fists. One hot stone of a hand on your back, the other alabaster and amber, tight knuckles and jutting joints, at his knee. You're not sure whose heartbeat you're hearing.

"I." His eyes dart to his lap. Please, please please, let them stay there. If they wander over to yours, you're done for. Space Needle and all that. "I think you said you had a crush on me," he continues.

"Uh."

Brilliant and insightful response, Parkman. Would you care to elaborate?

"Uh, well, I--"

"I _really_ like you."

His expression is one of concentration, like he's still fighting to get the words out.

You forget to breathe.

Then you try to take two breaths at once to make up for it and end up in another coughing fit.

"Are you all right?" he gasps, and his hand on your back, no longer a fist, begins rubbing in gentle circles. Oh, oh, oh, that is hands down bar none the best thing you've ever felt. Yeah, you're all right. You're doing peachy right about now.

"I'm fine," you choke. "I'm just waiting for the but."

"The what?" He looks offended.

The butt, you freaking genius, as in drop trou right now? Is that what he wants you to say? God, he's clueless! "The but. You know, 'I really like you, BUT.' What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." Wow. He turns a really impressive color. You'd never stopped to ponder what it would look like if he blushed. What's the name of that color, anyway? "And there's no but. I really like you. I..." And the shade goes deeper. They oughta make a Crayola of that color. "I'd always considered myself the inadequate one, quite frankly. What you said... startled me."

His. Hand.

No, not the one on your back. The other one.

It's on yours.

Then it hits you. You get it. Mohinder likes you. He likes you the way you like him. He's holding your hand and blushing and telling you he felt inadequate around you. Never mind how that works. It doesn't matter. He likes you. Somehow you have managed to bumble and stumble your way into this guy's heart. Congratulations, Parkman. Maybe you win the game after all.

You know you've got a dopey, goofy grin on your face right now and you don't care. All that matters is that you've had a moment of clarity long enough to shrug his other hand off your back. You take in yours and stroke the back of it with your thumb. His eyes go dark and he's looking down at your hands like he can't believe you're holding them. You can't quite believe it either, but you're willing to go with it.

His breath is awfully close to yours. Some of that tantalizing black hair is drooping into your face. So close you could touch it. His skin is smoother and smoother under your thumb. And his eyes have gone dark and are slitting closed and so are yours, You know what that means, right? It means you're about to ki...

"Hah-CHOO!!"

No, not on his face, you managed to avoid his face. But both of your hands are absolutely covered.

"Oh, by God. I'b so sorry. Here, led be ged you a dissue." You sound like a Peanuts caricature of yourself. You wipe him up, wipe yourself up, honk your nose clear.

Cursing yourself and the world and most especially that lower life form known as the virus, you get up. You've got a wad of tissues clutched in your hand. You lumber over to the trash can, and promptly spill the tissues all over the floor because the man you just sneezed on has grabbed you, whirled you around with surprising force, and planted his lips on yours.

Now that. _That_ clears the sinuses.

The morals of this tale:  
1\. First kisses are hard to screw up. But someone of your exceptional talent will manage anyway.  
2\. Doesn't mean they won't be friggin' wonderful, though.  
3\. Don't ever watch soap operas. Even when you're sick. Damn things are addictive.

**8\. How Not to Tell the Kid**

Mohinder likes you. A lot. He likes you so much that this afternoon he kissed you despite your having the plague. Your romantic words of choice after the fact? "You... You probably just infected yourself."

He shrugged and muttered something about having Claire Bennet's blood in the lab, a phrase you weren't very much able to ponder even after he left to pick up Molly. Not that it really matters Mohinder _kissed_ you. There are birds singing and small furry woodland creatures cavorting about your apartment, or, at least, you're giddy enough to hallucinate that the rats have somehow gotten cute.

Dinner was distracting. He kept smiling and blushing and stammering and doesn't he know that's _your_ job? Besides. This new demure Mohinder is sort of ridiculously sexy. You only just had your first kiss and your imagination's going places where small furry woodland creatures fear to tread. So you bit your lip as hard as you could and listened to Molly talk about getting yelled at by a cop when she tried to cross the street even though the crosswalk signal was blinking red. Any other day you'd be mad at her. But today you just say "That's interesting. Be careful next time."

Now it's ten p.m. and it's awfully quiet and Mohinder's looking at you, again kind of shyly, sitting at the kitchen table. Eventually he gets up and starts to walk toward the living room to pick up the disgusting mounds of tissues you've left on the floor surrounding the TV set, just like the mounds you left on the kitchen floor after he kissed you--

Wait a second, wait a second, Mohinder kissed you? So does that mean that, say, if you kissed him now he would be OK with that?

One way to find out.

OK, maybe two ways, because you're fairly sure you did not plan to grab him, then trip on the rug and take him down with you so you both end up with bruised tailbones. "Ouch, for goodness' sake, Matt--" he starts before you're on top of him and kissing the sound right out of his mouth.

All at once he's silent, except for a strange little moan in the back of his throat, and there are arms around your neck and a leg between your legs and you're surrounded by snotty tissues and you're both going to have big black-and-blues on your asses tomorrow and somehow this is all devastatingly sexy because he's licking your lips and his hand is on said soon-to-be-black-and-blue ass and oh oh oh oh OH this is better than you could ever have fantasized or imagined in your life and it's really freaking hot in here. Maybe you should take your shirt off.

You sit up, put both hands at your waist to pull your shirt over your head, and your eyes catch the eyes of a little girl holding a teddy bear and looking absolutely horrified.

Oh, no.

"Oh, no." You say it out loud. He tilts his head just in time to catch a glimpse of her running back into her room.

Several unanswered knocks later, and you two look at each other, nod, and decisively push the door open. She's hidden in her bed, the sheets thrown over her head. Your kid is hiding from you. Not the greatest feeling in the world.

"Molly, can we talk?" you say. "Please? We need to talk to you about what-- what you saw." Brilliant. Start _off_ pleading. That's one for the parenting books.

A muffled voice comes from beneath the linens. "I don't want to talk about it!"

"How are we supposed to explain things to you if you won't talk to us?" Mohinder says, a trace of annoyance in his voice. He's standing behind you, and his hand touches your shoulder briefly. Just the slightest bit of comfort. _It's all right,_ he thinks at you. _This doesn't change anything._ Oh, great. First you're pleading, and now you're melting like so much butter in the microwave. He better have a bucket to scoop you up with later.

"You're not!" she shrieks. "That's why I don't want to talk about it!" Her voice goes up to fever pitch. Somewhere on Long Island, a thousand garage doors go up simultaneously.

Maybe you can still recover this thing. "We have to talk about it, Molly. Now or later. These things happen with adults sometimes and you can't just hide from it. Come on."

"Why? Why did it happen? Who started it!?" she cries, still muffled. It's like having a conversation with Cousin Itt, and what's more, you're unsure how to answer that question. You suppose you started it, but he was the first person to really bring it up, and...

Wait a minute, what kind of question is that?

"Molly? Pumpkin?" You put a hand on the lump of sheet, and it jerks away. "What exactly did you see us doing?"

Mohinder shoots a surprised glance at you.

"What do you mean!?" Finally she throws off the covers, pissed enough to forget she's hiding. Gotta love the singlemindedness of a kid in distress. "I saw you two fighting!"

There's a moment of blankness. Just absolute and utter silence. You're pretty sure you can hear a fly buzzing in the neighbor's apartment.

Mohinder chokes on his own snigger. You have a coughing fit. "We weren't fighting," you manage to spit out between lung-clearing hacks.

Now she goes all red, and her tear-streaked face stops moving. Damn it, you should not find that adorable. This kid has utterly ruined you. You have no willpower. You want desperately to crack up.

"You weren't?" she squeaks.

"No. We, uh, we weren't fighting." This is about to become, officially, the weirdest conversation you have ever had. You take a deep breath. "We... were kissing."

"_What?_"

There are just no words to describe the tone of voice in which that word is said. It's the verbal equivalent of the moment when your LP goes completely warped and the needle gives a nice big scar. It hurts to hear.

And it feels even weirder to say it the second time. "We were kissing," you mutter.

Her face is scarlet. "That's even weirder!"

"Yes, perhaps it is," Mohinder breaks in. "But Molly, it's something that sometimes happens. Matt and I like each other a great deal. Very much in the same way your mother and father liked each other. They liked each other so much they got married, right?"

"Yeah," she argues, "but you can't have babies! Mom always said they got married so they could have babies!"

You're just a complete tomato at this point. You can't move or think. Mohinder has stepped into the breach rather admirably, in the meantime. "No, dear, but having children isn't the only reason people get married or grow to like each other. In our case, it's very likely that we like each other because of you. We both love you so much, it makes us want to be a family. And that idea makes us both very happy. You would like us to be happy, wouldn't you?"

OK, where is he getting this? Because you need a copy of his script, and fast. Has he got a writing team in that laptop of his? Maybe he should run for office. In any case, you're awfully glad that he's the one you ended up falling for, because probably nobody else on earth could have navigated this catastrophe and come out smelling quite as much like a rose as he did.

Of course, this is all shot to hell tomorrow when her teacher calls and wants to know why Molly is telling the whole class stories about her dads kissing each other.

The morals of this cautionary tale:

1\. Don't get it on in the living room, no matter how asleep you're sure your kid is.  
2\. Kids can be awfully quick to jump to conclusions.  
3\. When you teach your kids about the birds and the bees, or occasionally the birds and the birds, a lesson in confidentiality and tact should probably be included.

**9\. How Not to Have Your First Sexual Encounter**

Well, there's good news, bad news, worse news, and the real kicker.

The good news is, the week continues at a fairly relaxed clip. You two are getting used to the idea that you're a couple. Even Molly's warming to the idea, although she's still occasionally muttering "Wei-r-d" in a singsong voice. There's the requisite hand-holding, a bit of kissing, and at least one instance of getting-- gasp!-- all the way to first base. It's all very calm and placid.

The bad news is, that's just on the outside. Inside your, head you're running around screaming like a first-grader at a Power Rangers convention. It's All Mohinder All the Time in there, and it ranges from Care Bears tame (the look on his face when he came home and dinner was already made! Eeek!) to Debbie Does Dallas raunchy (bending over that counter while he's still wearing your apron sounds good). And it does. Not. Stop.

Even worse, Mohinder is not showing any signs of feeling the same way. Well. OK, you do get at least one sign poking at you during one particularly wet and silly dishwashing session. But aside from that, his thoughts are chaste and his actions are reserved. You're starting to wonder just what he meant by _really_ liking you. Maybe he's one of those post-physical Eastern yoga types who can completely transcend earthly desires. In that case, he should stop inspiring them, the selfish bastard.

By now I'm sure you're wondering what the real kicker is. And here we go: Molly informs you both that she's been invited to a sleepover on Friday night after school.

You gape at each other. You don't need to read anybody's mind now. Everybody in the world in a new relationship knows what that particular stare means.

"What's the matter with you two?" she informs you crossly. "I'll be home the next morning, you know!"

Right. Somehow you manage to stumble through the motions, help her pack her backpack, all that good old don't-forget-your-toothbrush stuff, and walk her to the bus stop in the morning. (She takes the bus to school but you have to give her a ride home, cause of the hell known as afterschool programs. They're supposed to make things _easier_ for parents. Go figure.) Then you walk back to the apartment, close the door, and look at Mohinder.

"So," you say.

"So," he says.

If your heart gets any higher in your throat, your Adam's apple is going to sue for copyright infringement.

Then he's against you and you're kissing and it's great, perfect, unbelievable. He's got you against the back of the door. You're so excited and he's so excited and you're both about to lose control and you think you like it, woo-woo. Knees getting weak, sagging against the door, his hands under your shirt, your hands somewhere that involves skin and strong muscles and it doesn't much matter where that is, you're about to fall on your ass again with him on top of you and please let this moment never ever end.

'Cept the phone rings and it's your boss and you're late-Parkman-late-what-the-HELL.

So, your pleas go unanswered and you're running out the door and don't even get a chance to talk about it.

What a day at work that is. Let's just skip over it because it's absolutely hell on earth. You barely make it to your door alive. And when you do, it's completely escaped your notice that you're alone together for a full night because it's just been one thing on top of another, and judging from the stream of biobabble from the mind in the other room it hasn't been all that much easier for your quasi-boyfriend. He eats noodles out of a styrofoam container while somehow never breaking his 95 WPM typing speed (and he says he has no superpowers! Hah!), and you chomp cold chicken and flip channels.

Sometime after midnight he wanders in and sits down, bleary-eyed. You don't really need to say anything; you can tell he's too tired to talk. So much for your romantic Friday night alone with the man of your dreams. Not that you had anything planned anyway. He plops a head on your shoulder and you close your eyes, just feeling his presence there and listening to the jabbering talking head on the screen until it fades out into sleep.

When you next awaken, it's to an infomercial on the screen and Mohinder with his arms folded over your chest, snickering at you. Great. You've woken up in Wonderland with the Cheshire Cat on your lap. Not that you terribly much mind him lying on you like this.

"Huhwhnu?" is the brilliant opening line you come up with.

"You're snoring," he says through a snuffled chuckle.

"Whusorry," you say. He's all fuzzy and you're fairly sure you've drooled on yourself. You close your eyes again.

"Matt," he says, insistently. He doesn't want you going back to sleep. He should stop being so comfortable, then. It's not helping you get conscious.

"Whu?" You half-blink at him. His eyes are serious.

_Why aren't you taking me to bed?_

Oh. OH. OK. You're up, you're up.

Three minutes later and you're banging your head against the doorframe trying to negotiate hallways and buttons at the same time, howling in pain and gasping as brown fingers are just all over you, slippery damn things under your shirt and in your jeans and holy hell that was absolutely your funny bone just now against the dresser. That is gonna hurt in the morning. It's all going to hurt in the morning. Oh, wait, it IS the morning. Well, never mind, then.

"Bed, get on the bed," he reminds you. Oh yeah, that would be the bed part of being taken to bed. You have to be similarly reminded to take off your shirt.Luckily enough, he's already got your pants off by the time you remember they probably need to go, too.

Wow. Your brain is having a little trouble processing anything besides Holy Shit his mouth is _there_ and holy shit your hand is _here_ and agh you're cutting off my circulation please ease up on the leg around my waist. Oh. Crap, that's him thinking that. You jump backward. Brain Goddamn You Work, you command, and in an amazing moment of clarity you suddenly realize the poor man is actually fully clothed.

Oh, that's got to change and now.

Except for it's three a.m. and his shirt has got the tiniest buttons you've ever seen in your _life_ and your hands feel like big old slabs of meat. Oh, he's so pretty and you're so clumsy and you just can't navigate at this point. What's the point of undressing him, anyway? At this point you think you're probably capable of just tearing through anything that keeps you from him.

Oh. Speaking of which.

"Condoms," you say.

He sputters. "What?"

"Condoms," you repeat. "As in, I have none."

He flops backward onto the bed and sighs, then starts whacking you with a pillow. "Why didn't you think of these things?" he cries, laughing just to keep from groaning in utter despair. You take your lumps, literal and figurative.

The evening doesn't go completely to waste. You still end up happily satisfied, albeit not in the way you'd hoped. But still. Really. Couldn't you have thought far enough ahead to plan on having sex with the guy you're in love with? You're not exactly a blushing teenager, here. All in all, sorry, buddy. Buzzer goes off, you fail, control of the board goes to the other team. Next time, don't blow it, or blowing will be as far as you ever get, if you catch my drift.

The morals of this cautionary tale:  
1\. Don't ever waste a night sans kid. Be prepared, Boy Scout.   
2\. You may have the lousiest luck in the world, but even so, arrange your furniture in the least bruise-inspiring way possible.  
3\. Holy shit, you just thought of him as the man you're in love with. And you are. Wow. See? You're productive even when you're being unsmart. Congratulations.

**10\. How Not to Propose**

And now for my very last cautionary tale. I bet after all this moralizing you're pretty damn sick of me, so relax, after this it's tip-your-waitresses and try-the-fish and goodnight, everybody. So just stick with me one last time and let's try to drive this thing toward its inevitable, disastrous conclusion.

Now a few months have gone by. You're awfully happy. You've successfully consummated this whatever-it-is and even exchanged those Three Little Words. It's Hallmark time with Retzin and flavor crystals and you are pretty sure you're on the cover of next week's Better Homes &amp; Gardens. (Except for the part that requires you to have a home and/or a garden. but I digress.)

And it's the most innocuous sort of a night. A TV-watching, tea-sipping, domesticated night. Somehow you've gotten into a lazy discussion of mind-reading, how much of a function it is of superpowers and how much of just knowing the person you're with. (Yes, you get in these kinds of philosophical moods every so often.)

"For example," you're saying. "I don't have to actually physically read your mind to tell you what you're thinking right now."

"Oh?" says Mohinder, who seems slightly more interested in kissing your neck right at the moment. Hard to complain 'bout that. "And what is that?"

"Something along the lines of 'Oh my God, I've married a total basket case,'"

Again with the suspecting the time-stopping Japanese wunderkind is in the room. Because nothing moves for what feels like a year.

"Dating. Dating. I'm **dating** a total basket case," you blurt out before you realize Mohinder is clutching his stomach laughing so damn hard he's got tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Oh! Oh, no, Matt, that's... that's classic!" he bursts out between guffaws. "Oh, no!"

You try to disappear into the couch cushions like so much loose change. Why can't your boss call with a long and convenient stakeout that needs to begin this very moment? Still, Mohinder's laughing. Doesn't he realize how embarrassing this is for you? The heartless cad. You're utterly mortified. You think you might have to go sit a spell on the fainting couch.

"Cut it out," you mumble, "or I'll kidnap you and take you to Boston and then it won't be so funny anymore."

You mean it as a threat, but that's not how it comes out. There's too much wanting in your voice. He's losing the giggles, wiping away the tears of laughter, and scrambling up to sit next to you. "Really?" he breathes.

What does he mean, really? Does he want to be kidnapped and taken to Boston?

Oh, my God, he does.

"No, not really," you grumble, looking away. "What do we need Boston for? We're already married."

He forces a smile, nods. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he says, but his face seems to have lost some sort of spark.

You don't need to physically read his mind to know you can't leave it there.

"Then again," you say, "Molly would probably love the Swan Boats."

Of course, a year later you're going to find yourself in Boston anyway, being legally married in a ceremony officiated by a former New York congressman who thank God manages not to pick fights with any Red Sox fans, and once your kid has eaten her fill and gone to bed, you end up with a dozen of your best friends in a hotel lounge toasting your marriage by counseling everyone with these cautionary tales.

So for God's sake, please heed the moral of this final tale:

Stop listening to me babble, folks, and drink up.

Cheers!


End file.
